‘I’m afraid that in these difficult times . . . with the recession . . . well, we’re going to have to let some of the staff go. You will be paid redundancy money, of course.’

George felt as if someone had burst his own private bubble of happiness.

‘I see.’ But he didn’t see. He didn’t see at all. He had been with this firm for fifteen years.

‘How many will be going?’

Josephine Denham took a deep breath. He may as well know now as later.

‘Five. Johnson, Mathers, Davids and Pelham. Not forgetting your good self, of course.’

George stared at her. His expressionless face seemed to be drinking her in. She shuddered.

‘I see.’ So all the older men were to go. The young so-called dynamos were all staying. George felt an urge to leap from his chair and slap the supercilious bitch with her painted face, her dyed blond hair, her fat, wobbling breasts. The dirty stinking slut! The dirty whore! He hoped she died screaming of cancer. He hoped they sliced her breasts inch by inch. He hoped . . .

‘Are you all right, Mr Markham?’ Josephine Denham was nervous. He had sat staring at her for over five minutes. No expression on his face, nothing. He knew and she knew that he was finished. No other firm would take him at fifty-one. He just did not have what it took. He had no charisma, no personality. George Markham had nothing going for him at all.

‘I really am dreadfully sorry, George.’ She said his name timidly. Unsure of herself.

He looked at her before turning towards the door. ‘You will be.’

His voice was muffled and Josephine could not hear him. ‘Sorry, I didn’t quite . . .’

George turned to face her and smiled again.

‘I said, you will be.’

Was he being sarcastic? She watched as he shuffled from her office, his shoulders even more rounded and dejected-looking than when he had come in.

She breathed a sigh of relief. At least she had got that out of the way.

She picked up her cigarettes and lit one. For some unknown reason she was shaking. She grinned to herself. Imagine being nervous of a little runt like George Markham!

But her uneasiness stayed with her all day.

George went back to his desk and sat silent and still until lunchtime. His mind was whirling underneath his calm exterior. He got into the little pub, the Fox Revived, at five past twelve and ordered himself a large brandy.

The barmaid was about forty-five with long bleached blond hair and enormous false eyelashes. Her tiny, empty breasts were visible through her cheesecloth top. George looked at her in disgust.

Another slut. They were all fucking sluts. He put his hand to his mouth, shocked at even thinking such a word.

‘That’ll be one pound ninety, please.’ The barmaid’s voice had a nasal twang as she tried to speak in a refined manner.